


Talking To The Moon

by sapphire2309



Series: amis amants [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, spoilers for 4x16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire2309/pseuds/sapphire2309
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking for absolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking To The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Bruno Mars song of the same name. Written for Challenge #7 - Weekly Quick Fic 3, and the prompts Exit and Perception, over at writerverse.  
> This is stupid and cliched and I adore it okay. I can't seem to shake my fascination with drunk!Neal. Whatever. Self indulgent fic FTW.  
> P.S. - K13 made [art](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/111776.html) for this fic for my birthday! It's also at the end of the fic.  
>  **Disclaimer:** White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.

Neal stumbles his way to the terrace, more than a little drunk. There are problems to be solved and broken things to be fixed, but for now, for this one night, he's not going to be responsible for them. Even though he _is_ responsible, for all of them. Which is precisely why he's taking another large gulp straight from the mouth of a rather expensive bottle of wine. Which is all rather confusing.

He stops thinking about it.

There are tears threatening, but he shoves them into his throat and lets that ache build and build till it strains against his skin and tries to eat its way out. He doesn't let it.

He wants... company, he wants... understanding, he wants... forgiveness, he _wants_. His body is trembling from how much he wants, but he can think of no one who would care to listen to even half a word he has to say.

Except, maybe, someone who doesn't know. Someone who's already left his life. Someone who probably isn't coming back.

"Hey, Sara," he whispers, looking up at the moon. "Are you there?" Then he laughs at himself, an edge of cruelty to the mirth. "Of course you aren't. Of course not. Why would you be?"

And then, pleading, "Listen anyway."

He pours his heart out to a person that he usually shies away from exposing himself to, he talks till he's hoarse and his body is shaking less and the unformed aching tears are more manageable, he lays down on the recliner and closes his eyes and confesses some more. And just before he falls asleep, exhausted and spent, he thinks he hears a voice whisper back, "I understand, it's okay," and in his dreams, he feels a hand on his cheek and a tender kiss on his forehead.


End file.
